37. DIANA
DIANA
Christmas has been and gone. I spent it alone. My sister wanted me to come over, but I couldn’t face anyone; my heart was broken. I could hardly function, hardly get out of bed, and it took all my willpower to focus on launching my course.
I didn’t celebrate the launch, and the only person I wanted to share the success with was Rafe. A few days later, I gave in and sent him a message, and his response—I’m so proud of you—made me cry.
January was cold, and February was colder, the chill sinking into my bones like sadness.
March was warmer, and now, just as it felt like spring was finally coming, we’ve been swept back into a bitter Siberian winter.
The Beast from the East, the meteorologists have nicknamed it, and it’s bringing snow to London.
Recently, Sylvie’s been pestering me, complaining that she missed me at Christmas and that I don’t keep in touch, and that I have to come over for Easter because she has ‘big news’.
So tonight, I’ve agreed to come for dinner, despite my reservations.
Dad moved her into my old flat after he kicked me out, and it’s hard not to feel like it was a deliberate move to remind me that I’m out of favour and Sylvie is in.
I nod to the concierge in my old building as I pass into the lobby. He returns my nod, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the last time I was here too.
“Miss Marchetti,” he says. “Good to see you again.”
In a few moments, I’m outside my old front door, knocking on it, my heart thumping. This is weird. It feels strange to be back under these circumstances. Confusing.
I’m uncomfortable.
The door swings open, and my sister is standing there in a short black dress with an apron over the top, cinched at the waist. Her blonde hair is perfectly blow-dried, and she looks movie-star gorgeous.
“Diana, it’s been too long,” she says, pulling me into her arms.
“Hey,” I murmur as I take in the sight of my old home over her shoulder. The decor is all different. The bookshelves are gone. The carpet is totally different too; where I had a brightly patterned rug, Sylvie has that bland rattan stuff that scratches your bare feet.
A lump rises in my throat. Are we going to address the fact that she’s living in my old home? Or are we going to ignore it?
“Come in, come in,” she says with a smile. “You know your way around.” Her voice is light, but there’s a hint of something else there. An awkward tightness to the words.
Damn straight it’s awkward. She’s always been the favourite, and now she’s living in the flat in St James’. And we’re not going to talk about it?
Dave, her boyfriend, is lounging on a designer sofa, and he glances over at me, which is all the acknowledgement I get.
He’s some hot-shot city boy, apparently raking it in.
Earning millions. Dad chose him, of course.
As we pass by, Sylvie rolls her eyes at me like she’s on the anti-Dave team too and disapproves of his lack of greeting, but she doesn’t reprimand him.
But then, she wouldn’t. Dave’s the boss in this house, and Sylvie wouldn’t dare tell him off.
“Can you grab the red wine for me?” she says, and for a second I think she’s talking to Dave, but when he doesn’t move, I realise she means me. “It’s on the sideboard. Corkscrew’s there too.”
Sylvie walks into the kitchen, and Dave looks over at me, raising his glass. “Love a top up, Di.”
I grit my teeth. I hate Dave. I can’t look at him without remembering the she’s only good for giving head comment he made about Sylvie.
I can’t believe she forgave him. She told me about it in a moment of drunken weakness, wept on my shoulder one night, and moved in with him the next day. Never mentioned it again.
I hope she didn’t give him head for at least a month.
I pour a glass of red for me and one for Sylvie, but as I’m about to give it to her, Dave clicks his fingers and points into his empty wine glass on the side table beside him. “Top up,” he reminds me.
I have to restrain myself from walking over there and tipping the entire bottle over his head. “Sorry, my hands are full,” I say, lifting the glasses I’m holding and giving him a completely fake smile. He snarls at me, and I ignore him as I go into the kitchen.
“How’s it going with Dave?” I say, approaching my sister at the sink and keeping my voice low. I try to keep the judgment out of my tone. He’s not my boyfriend.
She grabs a tea towel from where it’s hanging on the oven door and dries her hands. “Actually, that’s why I asked you over. I have some news.” She holds out her left hand, where there’s a ring on her finger.
My stomach sinks, but I do what I’m supposed to do and step towards her, taking her hand in mine so I can inspect the ring.
The diamond is so tiny I have to squint.
Not that the size matters, but if she had to accept Dave, she ought to have made him pay for a bigger one.
It’s not like he doesn’t have the money, and some men do need to compensate. “It’s beautiful.”
She pulls her hand back and glances at it herself, a little smile on her face. “He told me I can’t buy anything for six months.”
My fingers tighten on my wineglass. “He what?”
“For the ring. You know. It was expensive, so I’m not to buy myself anything else.” She winces as if she’s bracing for that judgement I’ve been holding back.
I gesture to the living room. “Didn’t Dave just buy a brand new TV?”
“Yeah, but that’s for both of us.” She opens the oven, shaking the roast potatoes, which are hissing in a tray.
She shoves them back in, rattling the metal more than necessary and slamming the oven door closed.
I flinch. “And Dad gifted me the flat,” she says, spinning back to me, her expression crumpling into an embarrassed grimace.
“He gifted it to you?” I say, feeling suddenly unsteady on my feet. I got kicked out, and Sylvie gets the flat as a present?
She wrings her hands. “Yeah. I was going to tell you before, but you’ve been difficult to get hold of.” Sure, I directed a few of her calls to voicemail, but she never left a message. “It’s an engagement gift. He transferred it to me. Legally.”
“Wow,” I breathe, and we stare silently at one another for a few moments.
I want to run away.
She offers me a tight-lipped smile. “You look good,” she says, waving her hand up and down. “How did you afford the clothes?”
I stare at my Erica Lefroy shoes, which I’ve paired with a pale cream cashmere dress and a leather jacket.
The whole outfit reeks of designer goods and money.
I suddenly feel incredibly awkward, knowing my best friend’s father, whom I secretly slept with, bought all my clothes.
I should have turned up in my tracksuit. I don’t know what I was thinking.
“Sponsorship,” I lie.
“Nice. What about guys? Is there anyone?”
For a second, I contemplate telling her about Rafe. I miss him. I miss working with him. Seeing him. Swimming with him. I miss all of it; if I’m honest, those months in the Emblem were the happiest of my life.
“There’s no one,” I answer, and Sylvie gives me a sympathetic but pitying smile.
“Well, you look great,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“And business is going well?”
“Yeah. Very well. Finally.”
“Thought so. I saw you were invited to that movie premiere last week. You looked fantastic on the red carpet.”
No one wears a coat on the red carpet. The memory of the night I kissed Rafe tugs on my heart, an internal sting that I try to ignore. They come often, these intrusive memories, even all these months later. “Thanks. I’m pleased it all seems to be coming together.”
“Dad won’t be happy.” She casts me a guilty look. “He’s actually—”
The buzzer rings loudly, and I startle.
“Babe,” Dave calls. “That’ll be your parents.”
I snap to Sylvie. “What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry.” She shrivels, clasping her hands. “Dad wanted to see you. And Mum—”
“Mum’s just along for the ride,” I mutter. “You shouldn’t have done this.” I march into the living room and snatch up my bag. “Good to see you, Dave,” I call out.
He glances up, half-alarmed. “You’re going? But we haven’t eaten yet.”
“Lost my appetite.” My hand is on the door handle when a knock blasts from the other side.
Fuck.
I take a deep breath and open it, coming face-to-face with my father. He’s wearing a red half-zip woollen jumper that highlights the flush on his nose and cheeks, and the swell of his belly beneath is suddenly far too close to me. I take a step back.
We stare at one another, and his gaze is pure hatred. He loathes me, and I loathe him right back.
“Diana, sweetheart,” says Mum, peering over his shoulder. He’s totally blocking the doorway, and even when she speaks, he doesn’t move aside. “It’s been so long, honey. You never come to visit.”
I will my eyes not to roll at her saccharine tone. Mum is never in England. She much prefers to be in the States without us, so even if I did visit, she probably wouldn’t be there.
“I was just leaving,” I murmur.
“Dad, come in,” Sylvie calls, and he finally uproots himself, stepping fully into the flat and giving me the once over.
I feel dirty when he’s done.
“The prodigal daughter returns,” he murmurs.
“This is not a return. This is a departure.” Clutching my bag close to my stomach, I take a step towards the door, but Dad sticks his foot out like he means to trip me over.
“Diana, don’t go,” Sylvie calls. “The food is nearly ready.”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I call over my shoulder. “Anything would be better than staying here with him.” I glare in Dad’s direction, fully intending to leave with my dignity at least partially intact, but he won’t let me.
“I don’t know why you make me out to be the bad guy,” he says with false calm, but the rising colour in his cheeks exposes his fury.
“I only want what’s best for you. And Seb Hawkston was the best.” He pinches his fingers and makes a kissing motion like Seb was a delicacy he could eat, then points an accusatory finger in my direction. “You won’t do better.”